


Will You Please Pick Up The Phone?

by terramous



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Category: 9-1-1: Lone Star (TV 2020)
Genre: Additionally: a gun, Angst, Cry Into Chest, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly hurt with minimal comfort, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24637684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terramous/pseuds/terramous
Summary: His fingers fumbled for his phone. He was desperate, borderline begging as he pressed the call button.“Hello, you’ve reached Officer Carlos Reyes, APD. Unfortunately, I’m not available to take your call-“TK hung up.
Relationships: Carlos Reyes/TK Strand
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775494
Comments: 12
Kudos: 172
Collections: 9-1-1 Lone Star ▶ Carlos Reyes / Tyler Kennedy "TK" Strand





	Will You Please Pick Up The Phone?

**Author's Note:**

> For the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt: Cry into Chest
> 
> Also I just gotta say, TK is very sad, but this is not how you should deal with it

TK was probably supposed to be surprised when his fingers started to bleed. He’d chewed his fingernails beyond the quick. It was a nervous habit he had tried to kick years ago, but he could never seem to shake.

His fingers fumbled for his phone. He was desperate, borderline begging as he pressed the call button.

_“Hello, you’ve reached Officer Carlos Reyes, APD. Unfortunately, I’m not available to take your call-“_

TK hung up.

His eyelids were heavy, weighed down by nights of lost rest. Sleep brought him no comfort. The vulnerability of it made his skin crawl and his heart hitch its pace. He couldn’t find solace in being unaware, being unprepared. He was scared, but of what? 

So he hadn’t slept for more than a few moments at a time. He felt the exhaustion in his bones, in the way his movements were stilted and stiff, like a marionette dragged around by its strings.

There wasn’t even any comfort left in his daydreams. The silly fantasies that used to give him hope whenever he let himself get carried away with them. The edges of those dreams, where they usually glistened with possibility and hopes for the future, were now sharp and harsh. 

He’d cut himself if he tried to hold onto the mirage in front of him.

Black ink marred the pristine surface of TK’s skin. Smudges blotched over his fingers, hands and wrists from so many failed drafts with still fresh ink as he smeared his hands across the words in his frustration. 

The appearance was so similar to grease, TK let himself entertain the idea that he was a mechanic getting home from a long day of work. Smiling despite the marks across his skin, he could pretend that he was happy.

Even for a fleeting moment. 

Or two.

Crumpled sheets of paper filled the bin across the room, surpassing the rim and pouring all over the hardwood floor as failure after failure spilled from his pen.

He couldn’t find the words. Nothing felt like the right thing to say. 

These were supposed to be his final words but he couldn’t seem to string them together in the right way.

He’d tried blaming stress, work, his father, Carlos, anything. But it wasn’t right.

 _“I think we need to take a break. You need to focus on yourself, and feeling like you need to be someone different for me is not helping you. I still care about you, and I’ll be there if you need me, but I think being romantically involved is not what you need right now. Maybe in the future. I’ll wait,”_ Carlos had said that night.

Two nights before? Maybe three? TK couldn’t remember. The rise and set of the sun muddled together in TK’s mind like a palette full of paints as he moved a brush back and forth across its surface. 

But he would never forget how beautiful Carlos had been under the glow of twilight, the stars glistening above their heads. The way his eyes glittered as he spoke. The soft blush cast by the chill of the wind on his exposed skin.

TK could drown in the memories of Carlos. The memory of their fingers intertwined as they walked through the park that night. Carlos’ warmth by his side. It was picturesque, a scene right out of a movie. 

Up until the moment Carlos pulled his fingers from TK’s grasp, the look on his face made TK anxious. It was an expression never associated with good news.

The tight pull of Carlos’ lips, the downcast of his eyes. TK couldn’t scrub the image from his corneas, couldn’t pull the words from his ears.

It was the look Carlos always wore when he sought comfort from TK after having to deliver terrible news to a victim’s family. His big heart and softness betrayed him in that sense; he felt the pain of everyone else around him, more so than could ever be manageable.

So Carlos spent the entire walk back to the car apologizing, and the entire drive back to the Strand house in silence.

TK lapsed into silence as soon as Carlos finished his spiel, refusing to even meet Carlos’ eyes as he opened the passenger side door and beelined for the front door.

He spent the rest of the night crying on his dad’s shoulder as Owen rubbed his back and offered comfort. 

TK couldn’t blame him. Not for this. Carlos had only done what he thought was the best option for TK. He couldn’t be faulted for loving TK, for trying to support him. TK’s shortcomings were no one’s fault but his own, even if it was so much easier to blame anyone else.

His mental health was not their responsibility.

Cold. That was the first thing he registered as his fingers curled around the revolver on the table in front of him. 

The harsh frame composed of sharp corners nestled heavily in his palm. He didn’t expect it to be so heavy, and with the added weight of what the gun stood for hanging over TK’s head, he was surprised he could lift it at all.

There was blood on his knuckles. Probably more on the bathroom mirror from when he punched it earlier.

_Gripping the edge of the sink like a lifeline, TK had locked eyes with his reflection. He could see the emptiness in his eyes, the lack of any life behind them. A visual manifestation of the numbness inside of him._

_Red-rimmed eyes. Long since dried tear tracks._

_Evaluating his reflection, TK knew what he had to do._

_He didn’t know if he had the strength to do it._

_So in a brief moment of rage flooding his veins, his fist collided with the cold glass. Spiderwebs of lattice-like fractures ran throughout the mirror, disfiguring his reflection, manipulating his image into a broken display of how he felt. Across his cheekbone was the smear of crimson from TK’s knuckles as they split on impact at the epicentre of the damage._

_The brief sharp pain that sparked up his fingers broke the numbness, even if the sensation was fleeting._

_And then the ache returned._

“Please,” TK’s voice broke, “please, pick up.”

He knew he shouldn’t expect much. He knew Carlos was on shift for at least a few more hours. He wasn’t going to pick up, but TK had to keep trying. 

_“Hello.”_ He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding at the sound of Carlos’ voice. _“You’ve reached Officer Carlo-“_

TK ended the call.

He was becoming very familiar with Carlos’ voicemail.

TK knew rock bottom. Hell, he’d even seen the basement. It was not an unfamiliar territory for him to cross into, to bask in the feeling of hopelessness. He had scrambled on his hands and knees for a scrap of salvation so many times before. He’d sought a means to an end before.

So he greets the emptiness that weighs heavily behind his sternum like an old friend.

Sighing, TK pulled the revolver to his chest, cradling it under his throat.

His eyes trailed to the front door, more specifically, the handle. He kept waiting, hoping to see the metal bar tremble and twist. For the door to pop open. For someone to walk in and stop him. For someone to care.

He no longer had the restraint to stop himself, the ache in his chest growing beyond what he could handle, the pain suffocating him.

It could end before he even blinked.

It probably wouldn’t even hurt.

But still, he wanted someone to tether him to this earth for a little longer. To hold him close before he fell.

There was just something about not being heard that had TK’s throat raw from screaming into the empty house. His wretched cries cutting through the air, permeating every surface with his agony.

But no one could hear him.

Even as he had cowered on the ground, his knees stinging where they dug into the floorboards, no one could hear him.

Even as he begged for something to dull the pain, he was met with only vacant spaces and empty promises.

He kept calling Carlos, begging him to pick up. To tell him that it’s okay, to give him something tangible to hold onto as he spirals. A ledge to catch his fingers on, to keep him from slipping further.

It was like scraping his teeth on hard ice as he locked his jaw around the barrel of the revolver. It was freezing but also soothing in the comfort that it tempted. Was it blood he tasted or just iron on his lips?

The way the taste of bliss lingered on the tip of his tongue. 

He submerged himself in it.

Twenty three calls straight to voicemail.

There’s no one there to stop him.

As his grip tightens, the door opens.

He sees a pair of feet stop dead on the threshold for a fraction of a second before there are fervent hands pulling the muzzle of the revolver from between his teeth, ripping the trigger from his fingers.

He’s being held now, cradled into a chest as a hand knots in his hair and warm droplets hit his scalp. There’s a hot breath against his head, the arms around TK shake. He inhales the scent he has ingrained into his airways.

Carlos tries to speak. TK can hear the beginning syllables of words, the way vowels get stuck in his throat. After all, what do you say in this situation? What words could make this better?

His lips sting, missing the cool kiss of metal. His fingers itch for the release he could almost taste. But Carlos has his arms pinned firmly to his sides, and the gun, in such a hasty discard, could be anywhere.

Gently, Carlos begins to rock TK in a small repetitive motion. He continues to whisper into TK’s skull, no tangible words forming as his breath hitches and stutters with every new sob.

Guilt sets in. Here TK is, thinking only about the comfort that a gun in the palm of his hand brought him, how eager he was to sink into the oblivion. As Carlos was holding him with such ferocity, crying into his hair as Carlos had just come within a hair’s breadth of losing him.

Carlos cradles him in such a way that he can almost feel Carlos trying to pull TK closer than his ribcage would allow, to draw TK into himself, to protect him.

“I’m here,” Carlos murmurs. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

It was only then, did TK allow his hands to fist in the material of Carlos’ shirt, and for his tears to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from: Redeemer - Palaye Royale  
> Also this entire fic is based off of that song, it's very sad and I did not do it justice
> 
> [tumblr](https://sunsetcxrve.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this!! 💕


End file.
